"How are you?" she said. "Yes, I know you didn't see me, but I thought you'd like to."
"I do like to, indeed. May I walk with you—or—" he glanced back at the table where his Vermouth stood untasted.
"The impertinence of it! Frightfully improper to sit outside cafés, isn't it?—for women, I mean—and this Café in particular. Yes, I'll join you with the greatest pleasure. Coffee please."
"It's ages since I saw you," he said amiably, "not since—"
"Since I called on you at your hotel. How frightened you were!"
"Not for long," he answered, looking at her with the eyes she loved, the eyes of someone who was not Vernon—"Ah, me, a lot of water has run—"
"Not under the bridges," she pleaded: "say off the umbrellas."
"Since," he pursued, "we had that good talk. You remember, I wanted to call on you in London and you wouldn't let me. You might let me now."
"I will," she said. "97 Curzon Street. Your eyes haven't changed colour a bit. Nor your nature, I suppose. Yet something about you's changed. Got over Betty yet?"
"Quite, thanks," he said tranquilly. "But last time we met, you remember we agreed that I had no intentions."